Chapter 20
Khaeric stood in the center of their chamber, surrounded by the seamstress and her assistants. The seamstress was a slender woman with gray hair knotted high, her voice carrying careful neutrality when she spoke. “If you would raise your arms, my lord.” Her voice held careful neutrality.
He complied, lifting his arms wide. The pale gray scars along his forearms caught the light.
The seamstress approached, measuring tape ready. “We’ll need more fabric than I estimated,” she murmured. One assistant, a young elf barely past childhood, perched precariously on a wooden chair. Even with the added height, he stretched his arms to their limits, measuring Khaeric’s shoulder width.
Another assistant emerged from behind a carved screen, arms heavy with fabric bolts.
Silks spilled in shades from pale silver-gray to deeper slate.
“These would complement your complexion, my lord. Perhaps this one.” The assistant selected a fabric that matched the deeper tones of Khaeric’s skin while bearing the characteristic luster of elven silk.
Khaeric remained motionless, though Aeryn caught the slight flare of his nostrils—the only sign of his discomfort at being surrounded by strangers who feared him.
The assistant lifted the fabric higher, angling it toward the light. “Perfect,” the seamstress said, stepping back to examine the effect. “This shade will honor the Silver Bough while complementing your coloring.”
Behind him, the assistant on the chair wobbled, nearly toppling before catching himself on Khaeric’s shoulder. The young elf froze at the contact. For a long moment, no one moved.
Then Khaeric turned his head, meeting the assistant’s terrified gaze. “Ye’re about to fall,” he said, voice low and even. “Best steady yerself.”
The young elf repositioned himself and jerked his hand away as if burned.
“Forgive him, my lord. Finn is still learning proper etiquette,” the seamstress said.
“The Council will expect traditional formal attire,” she continued, addressing Aeryn.
“Though we’ll need to adjust certain elements to accommodate your husband’s proportions. ”
Aeryn shifted in her seat as another wave of nausea threatened. The morning sickness had eased since yesterday, but a persistent queasiness remained. She sipped from a cup of mint tea Eliara had sent up, hoping it would settle her stomach.
“We’ll need to adjust the collar. Traditional formal attire includes a high collar that would accentuate the—” The seamstress hesitated, eyes darting to the pronounced tusks curving from Khaeric’s lower jaw.
“My tusks,” Khaeric supplied.
Aeryn set down her teacup with a delicate clink. “Traditional formal wear would look ridiculous on him. I’d prefer something that honors his heritage rather than forcing him into elven styles designed for different builds.”
The seamstress blinked. “Princess, the Council will expect—”
“The Council will expect me to present my husband with dignity,” Aeryn interrupted, voice firm. “Not dressed as a poor imitation of an elven lord.”
The seamstress hesitated. “I understand your concern, Princess, but there are traditions—”
“My husband is an orc,” Aeryn said, rising. “The first to set foot on these shores in centuries. There is no tradition for this.”
“Perhaps,” the seamstress offered, “a compromise? The colors and symbols of the Silver Bough, but cut in a style that honors Lord Khaeric’s physique.”
“What do you suggest?” Aeryn’s tone softened.
“A longer tunic, perhaps, with embroidery at the hem rather than at the collar. Broader shoulders, of course, and we’ll use heavier silk that won’t strain at the seams.” The seamstress gestured to another assistant, who hurried forward with a sketchpad. “Something like this.”
The seamstress’s quill moved swiftly across parchment, sketching a garment that preserved the flowing lines of elven formal wear while accommodating Khaeric’s muscular build.
The collar opened at the throat rather than rising high, and the sleeves were fitted to showcase his powerful arms rather than hide them.
“Better.” Aeryn nodded, examining the sketch.
The seamstress visibly relaxed. “We’ll begin work promptly. The garments should be ready in two days.” She gestured to her assistants, who began gathering the materials with hurried movements. “If that will be all, we’ll take our leave.” She bowed to Aeryn.
The door closed with a soft click. Khaeric rolled his shoulders, releasing the held tension.
“That went well,” Aeryn said.
“If ye call them shakin’ like leaves in a storm ‘well,’” he snorted. “The lad on the chair looked ready to faint when he touched me.”
“They’ve likely never seen an orc before.” She reached for her tea again. “Let alone measured one for formal attire.”
“Aye, and they’ll keep lookin’ at me like that. Every one of yer people.” He crossed to the window, putting distance between them. “The seamstress couldn’t even say the word ‘tusks’ wi’out nearly chokin’ on it.”
Aeryn’s stomach twisted. “They’ll adjust. It takes time.”
“Will they?” He didn’t turn to face her. “Or will I always be the monster they’re dressin’ up in silk?”
“You’re not a monster.”
“To them I am.” His shoulders remained rigid. “Ye saw how they moved around me. Like I might tear into them at any moment.”
“Khaeric—”
“Ye spoke for me.” He turned then. “Told them what I should wear, how I should be presented. As if I cannae speak for myself.”
“That’s not fair. I was trying to protect you from their prejudice, not—”
“I’ve faced worse than a handful of frightened seamstresses.” The words came sharp, cutting.
Aeryn’s grip tightened on her teacup. The porcelain edge bit into her palm. “So I should have just sat there? Let them dress you in something ridiculous?”
“Ye should’ve asked me what I wanted.” He crossed his arms, the gesture closing him off. “Instead of decidin’ for me.”
“I’m sorry.” The words came out flat. Practiced. The same tone she’d used a thousand times at court when apologizing for perceived slights she hadn’t actually committed.
This was no different from when she’d first arrived at Beinn Ork.
When Malkor had presented her with those orcish garments—the semi-transparent dress, the leather bands, the flowing panels that left her legs bare.
She’d been forced to adapt then, to wear clothing that exposed her in ways she’d never imagined.
She set down the teacup before she broke it. “Would you like to go for a walk? The Silverwing Royal Park isn’t far from here.”
He stared at her; the sudden shift clearly caught him off guard. “A walk.”
“Yes.” She stood, smoothing her skirts. “Fresh air might do us both good. And you have seen little of the city.”
“Aeryn—”
“Unless you’d rather stay here and continue this argument.” She kept her voice light. “But I’d prefer not to.”
A long silence stretched between them. She could feel his gaze on her back as she crossed to the wardrobe, retrieving a cloak suitable for the cooler weather outside. She had exchanged her orcish travel clothes for her elven wardrobe—one that befitted her station here.
She waited, half-expecting him to refuse, to push the argument further. But when she glanced back, he was watching her with an expression she couldn’t quite read.
“Aye,” he said finally. “A walk.”
Aeryn nodded, draping the cloak over her arm. “I’ll need to inform Eliara where we’re going.”
The corridor outside was blessedly empty. She’d only been trying to help. That was what she did: she navigated the treacherous waters of court politics, anticipated problems before they arose, and smoothed over potential conflicts.
Eliara emerged from a side chamber. “Princess.” Her expression shifted to concern as her gaze swept over Aeryn. “Are you well? You look pale.”
She forced herself to straighten, to adopt the composed mask she’d worn for years. “I’m fine. Lord Khaeric and I are going to take a walk in the Royal Park.”
“I’ll have guards assembled—”
“Just two.” The walls of the estate felt like they were closing in, the weight of expectations and protocols suffocating.
Eliara’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. “As you wish, Princess. I’ll send word to the gate.”
Within minutes, two guards appeared armed with the ceremonial spears of the household guard. Their faces remained neutral as they fell into position behind Aeryn and Khaeric, though she caught the way their eyes tracked Khaeric’s every movement.
The walk through the estate grounds proved mercifully brief. Servants pressed themselves against walls as they passed, and more than one dropped into hasty bows that looked more like flinches. Aeryn kept her chin high, her steps measured.
The gates to Silverwing Royal Park stood open, wrought iron worked into intricate patterns of leaves and branches. Beyond them, the park spread out in manicured beauty: manicured lawns dotted with trees, and stone pathways winding between flower beds that still held late autumn blooms.
Khaeric moved beside her as they entered, his arm coming up around her shoulders, heavy and warm.
“Not like that.” The words came out sharper than she’d intended, and she stepped away.
Around them, eyes turned—elven nobility and their attendants pausing in their strolls to stare. “Offer me your arm. Like this.” She demonstrated, crooking her elbow slightly, the proper position for a lady to rest her hand.
His arm dropped, and something shuttered in his expression. For a moment, he simply looked at her. Then he offered his arm in the proper elven fashion, stiff and formal, holding it at exactly the angle a courtier would.
She placed her hand on his forearm, and they began to walk. The contact felt wrong. Too formal, too distant. But this was how it had to be here. This was survival.
Around them, conversations quieted as they passed. A group of elven ladies in pale green gowns turned to stare, their fans rising to hide whispered exchanges that weren’t quite quiet enough.